May 21, 2013

Does Poetry Demand Bravery? [by Alissa Fleck]

When I think of bravery in poetry, I think of having the courage
to own the lifestyle. As a now twenty-something who grew up with parents who
worked ceaselessly to give me every opportunity they never had, it’s hard not
to feel certain pressures—pressures to strive and succeed in the conventional,
“American” sense. I occasionally feel that being a writer is somehow my private
rebellion, one which is sometimes difficult to own.

For others, bravery in poetry is about the courage to say what
needs to be said.

Yet we undeniably live in a time and place where “bravery in
poetry” means something very different than it has in the past. This bravery
has sometimes meant putting aspects of one’s life on the line.

Still, bravery is and always has been an infinitely broad rage of
experience. In some cases it manifests most profoundly in what is not said.

All this and more was broached at The Poetry Society of America
and PEN World Voices Festival’s “Bravery in Poetry” presentation last week at
The New School. Several contemporary poets discussed the work of poets they
feel have demonstrated bravery and risk-taking in their work and lives.

Mary Karr talked about the “brute facts in unvarnished terms” in
the work of Zbigniew Herbert.

“Risking something is more than unconventional line breaks,” said
Karr, as though reminding us of a different time and place, one in which what
was risked was significant, one today’s young poets may struggle to channel.

Yet, to Herbert, who shrugged off such accusations, it was never
about bravery—it was simply a matter of taste.

Concluding “The Power of Taste” he writes:

It did not require great character
at all

we had a shred of necessary courage

but fundamentally it was a matter of
taste

Yes taste

that commands us to get out to make
a wry face draw out a sneer

even if for this the precious
capital of the body the head

must fall

Herbert raises the important
question of whose place it is to qualify one’s bravery.

Yusef Komunyakaa talked about “the severe bravery” and “lack of
hesitation” in the work of Muriel Rukeyser.

As someone who “breath[ed] in experience” and “breath[ed] out
poetry,” Rukeyser’s life and work were about “learning the so-called Other,”
said Komunyakaa.

Edward Hirsch’s depiction of Joseph Brodsky as “a party of one,”
(in “I Sit By The Window”: “My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked, /
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back”) and one who saw poetry as a form
of existence for which he must make the largest possible case came closest to
my own realm of experience, and the tensions between declaring oneself a poet
and standing by the lifestyle (though I would never dare compare my “bravery”
to Brodsky’s).

In perhaps the most moving presentation of the evening, Henri
Cole took on James Merrill, who eventually succumbed to AIDS-related
illness, though he, arguably, never directly addressed the experience of his
illness in his work, nor did he tell anyone but his close friends he was
sick.

“I hate the word ‘elegant’ to describe him,” said Cole, who sees
the word as a slur by critics for Merrill’s homosexuality.

Merill, said Cole, did not want to be treated as a sick person
despite the moral pressures of the time to speak out.

“His silence was heroic,” said Cole. “He denied himself the
comfort.”

Maybe we don’t have to be as socially and politically courageous
in our work as the writers who came before us, though we struggle still, and
forever will, to be personally courageous. The bravery our predecessors took on
is a luxury for us but, potentially, a detriment as well. Will we ever learn to
be as bold as they were—as they remain in their immortalized words—if not
presented with the challenges they helped remove?

(Ed note: this is a second review of the May 1 "Bravery in Poetry" event. Read Sharon Preiss's take here.)

Comments

Does Poetry Demand Bravery? [by Alissa Fleck]

When I think of bravery in poetry, I think of having the courage
to own the lifestyle. As a now twenty-something who grew up with parents who
worked ceaselessly to give me every opportunity they never had, it’s hard not
to feel certain pressures—pressures to strive and succeed in the conventional,
“American” sense. I occasionally feel that being a writer is somehow my private
rebellion, one which is sometimes difficult to own.

For others, bravery in poetry is about the courage to say what
needs to be said.

Yet we undeniably live in a time and place where “bravery in
poetry” means something very different than it has in the past. This bravery
has sometimes meant putting aspects of one’s life on the line.

Still, bravery is and always has been an infinitely broad rage of
experience. In some cases it manifests most profoundly in what is not said.

All this and more was broached at The Poetry Society of America
and PEN World Voices Festival’s “Bravery in Poetry” presentation last week at
The New School. Several contemporary poets discussed the work of poets they
feel have demonstrated bravery and risk-taking in their work and lives.

Mary Karr talked about the “brute facts in unvarnished terms” in
the work of Zbigniew Herbert.

“Risking something is more than unconventional line breaks,” said
Karr, as though reminding us of a different time and place, one in which what
was risked was significant, one today’s young poets may struggle to channel.

Yet, to Herbert, who shrugged off such accusations, it was never
about bravery—it was simply a matter of taste.

Concluding “The Power of Taste” he writes:

It did not require great character
at all

we had a shred of necessary courage

but fundamentally it was a matter of
taste

Yes taste

that commands us to get out to make
a wry face draw out a sneer

even if for this the precious
capital of the body the head

must fall

Herbert raises the important
question of whose place it is to qualify one’s bravery.

Yusef Komunyakaa talked about “the severe bravery” and “lack of
hesitation” in the work of Muriel Rukeyser.

As someone who “breath[ed] in experience” and “breath[ed] out
poetry,” Rukeyser’s life and work were about “learning the so-called Other,”
said Komunyakaa.

Edward Hirsch’s depiction of Joseph Brodsky as “a party of one,”
(in “I Sit By The Window”: “My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked, /
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back”) and one who saw poetry as a form
of existence for which he must make the largest possible case came closest to
my own realm of experience, and the tensions between declaring oneself a poet
and standing by the lifestyle (though I would never dare compare my “bravery”
to Brodsky’s).

In perhaps the most moving presentation of the evening, Henri
Cole took on James Merrill, who eventually succumbed to AIDS-related
illness, though he, arguably, never directly addressed the experience of his
illness in his work, nor did he tell anyone but his close friends he was
sick.

“I hate the word ‘elegant’ to describe him,” said Cole, who sees
the word as a slur by critics for Merrill’s homosexuality.

Merill, said Cole, did not want to be treated as a sick person
despite the moral pressures of the time to speak out.

“His silence was heroic,” said Cole. “He denied himself the
comfort.”

Maybe we don’t have to be as socially and politically courageous
in our work as the writers who came before us, though we struggle still, and
forever will, to be personally courageous. The bravery our predecessors took on
is a luxury for us but, potentially, a detriment as well. Will we ever learn to
be as bold as they were—as they remain in their immortalized words—if not
presented with the challenges they helped remove?

(Ed note: this is a second review of the May 1 "Bravery in Poetry" event. Read Sharon Preiss's take here.)